Captain Charming (Tales of 1001 Flights)

by Alice May Ball

  I wanted to see the buttons on his crisp white shirt pop, to watch his chest and his stomach, and to gaze as his bluejeans slid down over those hard, muscular thighs. My throat dried and my mouth watered at the thought of seeing a pair of soft cotton briefs, with the firm bulge of him inside.

  The firm roundness of his plummy voice set my insides quivering. “We aren’t allowed to touch each other,” he said. “In fact, I think we may be about to commit a crime just by sleeping in the same room together.”

  His eager eyes ran over my young breasts over my soft, pulsing throat and down. Down to where my shaking thighs buzzed under my short plaid skirt, over my watery, unreliable knees.

  The tip of his tongue slipped out between his full lips. “We can’t touch each other, especially not in the places I want to touch you,” his eyes were still on the insides of my thighs. “And we definitely can’t have sex.” I nearly collapsed when he said that.

  Then he said, “At least, not with each other.”

  After Dinner

  I KNEW IT WAS WRONG. I knew that I shouldn’t do it. I knew that I wanted it so bad I had no way at all to resist. He said, “Let’s not turn the light on.”

  The silvery moonlight was enough to see the room, but bathed the raw ordinariness in a magical blue twilight.

  His hands were on his hips as he faced me, his broad shoulders back and his proud head high. A bulge strained the denim at the top of his powerful thighs, a bulge that slowly moved. Lengthened as I stared, wide-eyed at it. Thickened as I licked my cherry-red lips.

  As I looked up into his eyes his hand slipped across and the tips of his fingers began to trace the line of the long, fat bulge. My eyes popped wide and the insides of my legs trembled. My hand, on the top my thigh began to move of its own accord, without my willing it. It pulled the hem of my skirt higher.

  “See,” he said, “We can have sex,” my other hand clawed at my breast through my white cotton shirt and my bra and I gasped as he went on, “Only not with each other.”

  Now I knew what it was that I wanted. Now that it was crystal clear that I could never, ever have it. My finger touched the front of my knickers, just exactly where he had stared at them while I sat at the top of the stairs. My finger felt the hot, thrumming wetness and inside my pants I ached so hard the buzz was almost a sound.

  My thighs flexed as I watched him noisily drag his nail, over the rough denim and up and down the length of his hardening cock. My chest swelled like it would burst. His eyes widened as he watched the rise and fall of my breasts, as I squeezed through the cotton and the padding of the bra.

  I moaned as I rolled my hardening, stinging nipple between my thumb and forefinger. The look in his eye reminded me, we mustn’t let the parents hear. Certainly not Lord Chatterton. Mother, who knows what Mother would think.

  He flipped open the buttons of his shirt and I was transfixed in the half-light by the glistening muscles of his chest and arms. I drew breath at the definition of his abs. “That boarding school phys ed must be pretty good,” I mumbled, inanely.

  My fingers had slid inside my panties. Absently I rubbed around the hood of my clit. My other hand pressed my lips apart and pushed softly up the insides of my lips and traced around my folds. I was so hot and so wet, the scent made me giddy.

  As he dropped the white shirt down his arms and it fell to the floor, I buckled at the waist and had to lean back against the wall. My fingers were flying, rubbing inside, far up, and outside. My thighs shook as they parted.

  When he popped the buttons of his bluejeans, I chewed my lip and ran my fingers around and around my lips. I pressed either side of my clit to make it pop in and out. I fought to keep the sound of my shaking moans from gurgling out too loudly.

  When I saw his soft, silky boxers peep out of the open fly and the pole of his cock thrust the fabric out, I folded and I sank to my knees. My face contorted and I couldn’t keep my eyes open to stare at him as he unsheathed himself completely and I collapsed.

  Slowly I lifted myself from the floor. My clothes were wet and my face was, too. He stepped out of his pants and my eyes fixed on his gorgeous ass, his fine, strong soccer player’s legs and the rigid telegraph pole that swung at an upward forty-five degrees from his groin.

  So badly I wanted to grab the two almost ‘s’ shaped indentations, either side of his hips. To grab and squeeze the wonderful rolling globes of his ass and to stroke that fine thrusting flesh, that magnificent, proud cock. More, I wanted to lick it. Taste it. Beat it against my tongue and slide my lips over it. My fingers were up inside me again as he threw back the sheets and blanket and climbed into bed. Into. My. Bed.

  Seeing his fabulous, sculpted body there, there against my wall, on my mattress, my fingers flicked and I squeezed my lips together as I came again.

  It took a moment for me to get up to my knees, but I didn’t take my eyes of his thick, pulsing cock as he stroked it, grasped it, gently, so softly brushed the skin underneath it and drew his thumb along the gentle curve at the top.

  I almost ripped my panties puling them off. He squeezed the underneath right below the bulb and then slid his hand down again. All the time his eyes stayed fixed on mine.

  His honeyed voice melted me inside, “You can’t touch it. Not now, not ever.”

  I gasped for breath as I lay beside him, so close that the heat of his body caressed my breast and my tummy.

  “You can come as close as you like to it, though.” My heart thundered as I bent near to him and smelled his dark, musky scent. “I can feel your breath.” He whispered, and I felt his breath, too, in my hair. He said, “I think it’s alright for you to touch me with your breath. While the air is still in your body, it could be considered apart of you, couldn’t it? But not after it’s left your soft, warm throat and passed your lovely, wet lips.” I breathed hot and heavily on him as the sensations inside me rose and swirled again.

  He said, “Oh, yes, you can blow on me. OH! Just that touch, the caress of your sweet breath, that’s wonderful. Oh God, oh, yes, oh,” and he clamped his lips shut, his eyes squeezed tight and then popped open as he grunted. “Honey!” his cock lengthened still more, it reddened and pulsed and a fountain of thick, white juice burst out in bolts.

  A drop landed on my tongue.

  His voice grated as he gasped for breath, “You mustn’t taste that.” Too late, “You certainly mustn’t lick the long sticky strand from your lips.” Oops! “Oh, and you definitely mustn’t swallow any of it.”

  The taste was salty and electric. I wanted to peer up and give him a naughty little girl look. Fluttering have-I-been-bad eyelids. I couldn’t because once again the swirling tides of ecstasy blasted through me.

  His lovely blond curls bobbed down and he bent to watch between my clenching thighs. I could hardly contain the noise of as my legs slammed together and I forced them apart. His breath fanned the insides of my thighs, then the underside of my clenching cheeks.

  Finally I felt his warm breath snake up to the tops of my legs. It blew hot on the soft flesh of my inner thighs, cool on my aching, swollen lips. Cold enough to make me shudder as he blew on my throbbing bud, cool as it slipped into my crevasse and up, inside between my trembling walls.

  The bedsprings heaved as my back arched. My toes curled and my fingers clawed and I had to bite my arm to muffle the sound of my helpless, rasping moans.

  “We must never,” his hot breath grated in a whisper, hot on my neck, “Whatever happens. We can never, ever do this again.”

  “Never.” I said. I was glad that the one fat little tear rolled out of the eye that was away from him. I’d have hated him to see it.

  His Father, My Mother

  WHEN ROGER ARRIVED, MOTHER TOLD ME that Lord Chatterton’s ‘big apartment’ was going to be much more suitable than our little house. I didn’t see why. It was way high in an apartment block downtown. Our clapperboard and shingle house, just a few minutes from the sea, seemed much better than that sterile, echoing old museum of a
place.

  We had our own door on to the street and you didn’t have to wait for an elevator to go out or to come back in. You could open all the windows and we had a yard out back with grass and some flowers.

  Mother said that Father’s apartment had a wonderful view of the river. I couldn’t see what was so great about seeing the river when you were so high up above it. Being able to smell the sea seemed far better.

  So, the next four years Roger and I both went to Lincoln High. Father was awful to him pretty much all of the time.Whatever Roger did, wherever he went, I tried to follow him like some stray mutt.

  He tried to shoo me away like a mutt, too. Once in a coffee bar, in front of practically the whole of my school year he said, “Must you hang around me like a bad smell wherever I go?”

  He was right, of course. It must have been a real pain to have this little shapeless urchin constantly in your shadow. When he was trying to make new friends and impress people, I must have made him look shabby.

  Whenever we were alone he said that I was the most important person in the world to him. That was all that mattered.

  The Beach

  A BRIGHT PATCH IN THOSE DULL days was on the Sundays in summer when Father took all of us up to the public beaches in the Hamptons.

  Roger had only to step onto the beach and there would be half a dozen kids around him in minutes. Most of them were girls. They touched his arm or his chest. When he talked to them they tilted their heads. Touched the sides of their necks or played with their hair as they blinked against the sun.

  Seeing the easy way that he made friends, with girls especially, it always lit a kind of a glow inside of me. A glow that carried some of the mysterious tingle. Every time I felt it from then on, it was always around him. Until he left. Since then whenever I felt it a thought of him would be in the back of my mind.

  In no time at all he’d have a beach football team, with him as the quarterback, of course. He didn’t care about the game or who won, although he usually did most of the scoring, all he was interested in was making the girls squeal and scream.

  Then he’d get the girls organized into beach volleyball teams. As a tanned and busty girl jumped, he’d tell her what he wanted to do to her. Then he’d tell the sexiest girl on the other team he’d only done it to put the first girl off her stroke.

  He had all the girls interested in strokes in no time. When Father and Mother and I went to the cheapest local diner, way off the beach, Roger would stay out into the twilight for an impromptu beach party.

  When I said, couldn’t I stay with Roger, Mother told me, “You’re too young for that kind of thing.” Then Father snorted, “The little bastard will have more little bastards, scuttling like sandcrabs all over the Hamptons.”

  The Shower

  ONE MORNING MOTHER AND FATHER HAD both left early, so I had to get myself up. Never one of my special skills. Between trying to figure out coffee and something for breakfast, still bleary and in my jammies, I barged into the bathroom. Steam billowed out as soon as I opened the door and I knew this wasn’t right.

  Still, nothing was right that morning, so I fumbled through the mist for the mug with my toothbrush. The shower cabinet door was open. Roger was crouched. Naked and glistening, his huge cock was in his hand.

  His hair was wet, stuck to his face. His eyebrows creased in a steeple. He started to say my name, but his voice was hoarse.

  I dropped the toothbrush and ran. My whole body tingled so much I thought I was going to implode. As I shut the door to my room and leaned with my back against it, straight away half of me twisted in agony, wishing I hadn’t blundered in on him.

  The other half of me wanted to turn and bust back in there. I knew how wrong it would be. Just the thought of it was so wrong that it almost doubled me over.

  That was the beginning of it, I think, where I started to go so very badly off the rails. That feeling of how very wrong it was, I got kind of hooked on it. Wanted it, more and more.

  Hiding in His Room

  ROGER SAID, “ALL OF THOSE SILLY girls in high school.” We sat on the floor by his bed one slow summer Saturday and played Riddick on his X-Box. “All they want is to tell their friends they’ve been with me.” He drawled lazily, “Show off a mark and say, ‘Roger gave me that’.” he winced as he made the cruel impression of our year’s stereotypical ‘popular girl.’ “They don’t care about me, they don’t know anything about me. I’m just a damned trophy.”

  “I don’t care about any of them, either.” He looked into my eyes. “I always wish they were you, sis.” His lip trembled. His face twisted as he wrenched the controller. Flames burst to fill the screen.

  We played console games and hung out in his room a lot. About half of his time he spent out, debauching almost every member of the student body and half of the female teaching staff, and the other half flopped in his room. With me.

  The way that he talked about all of them, it sounded more like they were the ones who were debauching him. He relished in telling me every detail, I mean every tiny detail of what they did to him.

  I remember him sat against the side of his bed with his legs spread wide, his hand held his bluejeans and cupped his balls. He stretched as he told me exactly how and what and where the plump, redheaded English teacher had sucked on him and probed in him with the tip of her tongue.

  His eyes fastened on mine as he described her, stood over him as she slipped her panties down, then settled to sit over his face and press her hot, wet pussy into his lips.

  He made like he didn’t want any of it and I knew that was a lie. When he said, “It’s you, sis. I want to do all of that stuff, but only with you.”

  “Seems I’m the only person you don’t do it all with.”

  “It’s true,” and he looked regretful like a long-eared puppy, “But it’s only you who understands me. You get me, sis.”

  “Only I don’t. They do.”

  He hardly ever even called me ‘Honey.’ It was always ‘Sis.’ On the rare times he did say, ‘Honey,’ it was long and slow, like he did it to tease. Once he was sat in the morning shadow and he got that tone ion his voice. I knew he was going to say it.

  His face was almost hidden, all I could see was the blaze of his eyes and his voice was low and growly. He asked me, what would you do? If you could do anything,” I knew what he was talking about and I squirmed in my little white shorts.

  “What would you do?” I bit my lip and then, when he drew it out, as I knew he would, long and low, “Honey?” I came right there. Without even a touch I shook and I moaned as I crested and burst.

  Those long, agonizing afternoons are still among my most cherished, hidden memories.

  Hiding in His Room 2

  ONE HOT SATURDAY MORNING FATHER SHOUTED from the hallway, “Baz! Deirdre’s here for you.” Deirdre Macon was the oldest cheerleader, and she was the sexiest. This was the girl that all of the jocks and the whole football team panted after, howled at, and slavered over.

  “I haven’t invited her,” he scowled. Then he looked up into my eyes, pleading. “If they throw themselves at me, what am I supposed to do, but really,” his temple creased, “Have these girls no pride at all?”

  Roger pushed me and told me quickly to get inside his closet and hide. I said that I could just slip back to my room, but he said in an urgent whisper, “No, she’ll see you,” as he bundled me into the closet.

  The closet had two sides. A mirror hung over one door, and the other door was slatted. He pushed me into the side with the slats, and I thought he must have made a mistake, because if you looked hard enough you could see inside the closet.

  Deirdre wasn’t looking at the slats, though, so it didn’t really matter.